Results!!
*king Cass
**prince Hancock
***duke Keck
****earl Bob
The royal wanna be's....
Group 1
- Brent James. (RODDICK -- 6/7) Replaced by King The Todd.
- Nick Pena
- Joe Vita
- Troy Forney
Group 2
- Justin Huffman
- Dayton Hancock
- Jason Keck
- Bob Rogers
Group 3
- Chris Fess (RODDICK--6/2) Replaced by Pat Teterud.
- Slavko Djukic
- Paul Gorman
- Travis Gerard
Group 4
- Brian Cass
- Lawrence Fung
- Dane Crew
- Bill Vita
Off With Their Heads
A total mystery. The forehand of my game. Gone in an instant. This has happened before, you lose it, it comes back, small adjustments, minor tweaks, then back to groove. But no groove is playing now. No soulful rhythm, no jazz. More like yell metal, or erratic cowbell, or dreaded silence. The kind that makes you insane. Music is not the answer.
The backboard beacons, or a brick wall. For the basic breakdown. Get the racquet out front, this is not a sideways form. Elbow in, rotate the shoulders back, the left tucked under the chin a bit, then recoil on it. No tentativeness. Smooth, easy power. Finish high so the spin will bite. All the while, knees bent and bouncy and eyes watching the ball all the way to the impact of the strings. You must be sure that the shot will be successful, you must be thinking of the shot ahead, what your opponent might do and your response, depending. If all this doesn't go well or doesn't work or goes long or hits the net or your opponent hits an incredible winner, you must put it out of your mind and attempt again. Impossible. Which leads to emotions and even magnified emotions, the kind with vulgarities and equipment abuse. This forehand must be fixed, really think I need to finish higher. Coach Vita has a drill for that.
KOtC9 in under 24 hours. Eye on the Duke. This time last year we played for the French after those terrorist bastards went on their cowardly Paris rampage, this year we play for the U.K. as they endure this evil. The King has declared, the Prince agrees. The Duke has the axe, and the Earl of Nantucket is on the way. Off with their heads. Mahut!!!
Red Mud Gonzo
"Tilted and Torn" by jpg
...this tennis giant, fresh from the mosh pit...an entire generation apart, a two decade head start...but the decline has begun for the elders, life's undeniable truth...the brain's the equilizer, but only for a time...the clay seems darker on the screen, burnt orange...memories of a pearl white pool table with similar colored felt...tilted and torn...genuine draft neon sign, miller's desperate brew...two of three favors the old, three of five favors the young...
"Gritless" by jpg
...the old sturdy german proved too cool, the lanky american dragging his feet and giving up on shots by the end, content with a split set loss...haas, a former u.s. clay court champion, has seen his kind come and go...bend your knees man! that's what its gonna take...tommy haas will never be too old to beat reilly olpelka...like many other promising yanks of late...gritless...
"Elbow Fatalities" by jpg
...working on improving my game...moving, mental torture avoidance, the elbow realities of an aging player--elbow fatalities rather...yes, only spectating, for now...delusional, perhaps....will be checking in brothers and sisters, from the edge of the gulf of mexico, reporting from the red mud of houston...
...consultations with former local houston insider...scribbled choice spots for Wed night reflections...market square...hearsay, a dinner place...okra, with some unique community partnership...bad news bar, sounds like bad news...warrens, the nightcap spot...confession: never understood what nightcap meant...last beer? Final pour of wine? Last shot of Jack? Regardless, good to have some insight from a bonafide Houstonian...he seems a fine fellow, former bartender, current trading specialist...however, my go-along instinct is strong...with planning talent like TTop, the general insistence of CB, and the creativity of the ghost prince, my mind is doorless...
"Fog" by CB
Mile Marker 210 hitchhiker wearing a hospital gown. Don't pick him up.
Fog in Angus, TX.
"Drop" by TTop
Always drop a drop.
"Emotional Variance" by jpg
...the tradgedy of jared donaldson, so sure of his potential, unbelieving of mistakes, too much emotional variance...the loud encouragement seems out of place...looking to te stands, the coaching know it alls. The argentine max gonzalez never looked to the stands...only swatted his shoes free of mud, kept his cool. A drop killer...
"Coach Glances" by jpg
By the semis, the practice boy grab asses are gone, the showouts and gritless. The ones that respectfully hate their opponents are left. As a player, while playing especially, it is a trap to root for others. Bellucci acknowledged no one as he arrived to practice for his quarterfinal match. Donaldson was hopping on his feet and staying positive after his tough 3 set loss to qualifier Maximo Gonzalez a day ealier. He should learn from Thomaz Bellucci on how to act. He don't care about up and comers and he dont care about old and tough. Bellucci won his quaterfinal match, taking out Querrey. Also, coach glances and reactions of any kind should be selected carefully.
"Avoid" by jpg
Brookstreet bbq. D minus. Cold pork. Horrible sides. Avoid...
"TV Jones classic" by OneFineGringo
I would like to welcome the newest who-ah to my who-ah house.
My friend Spencer made it. He's good at stuff. Ive been hassling him to sell it to me and he finally needed the money bad enough. I pick it up next Friday.
Details if interested:
*Neck- maple with rosewood slab fret board made by Warmoth.
*Body- ash thinline from allparts. Roth metal flake in clear nitro.
*Fender bridge with Glendale cold rolled steel saddles.
*Glendale grip-o-matic knobs
*cts pots CRL 3 way and switchcraft jack.
He wound the pickups. He made the bridge from scratch. It's a hot tele bridge and neck is a TV Jones classic that he also re-wound to work better in a tele neck position.
"So Smoky" by Matt
This is the best homemade ramen I've ever had! So smoky
"All maybe, maybe" by jpg
Don't touch the breakables! Finish your swing. Half step forward, momentum is a mother. Spotts Park revelations and curves. Internal simmering and demeanor control. Losing ain't fun, but you're still playing tennis. All in. Rain or not. All out, the only rational way...All maybe, maybe. No snorting! Damn important. Growl.
"The McKenzie Method" by jpg
...remembering the red mud days, alternately thinking of relevant details and noticing an incident in my lower spine. Nothing the McKenzie Method can't cure. The curve must be regained, the bubble needs to be deflated, been tricked into a golf game, gotta swing loose and true...what does 'fore' even mean?
"Stevie The Grit" by jpg
...grits are delicious, with butter and pepper. All americans will rediscover. Stevie The Grit, fighting off threats in each round, minding his game, bringing his heat, keeping his cool. Overcoming tricked up shots, an uptight brat, and a true brazilian mudder. The emerging cramps of the final couple of games furiously rubbed out on a changeover by an Asian wizard. Perhaps the most incredible massage ever caught on television. This allowed Stevie The Grit a chance to win the title. And he did. His serve, groovy forehand, and improved mindset the reasons. Thomaz Bellucci's inexplicable weak backhand into the net while The Grit was unable to even take a step, allowing the 3rd set tiebreaker, also contributed to the outcome. The Brazilian's surprising Romoesqe moment...
"The River Oaks Area Aside" by jpg
...the grip of Houston's perpetual traffic extends north almost to the eloquent and impressive Sam Houston statue in Huntsville. Surely he would be in distress over the condition of the city that bears his name, especially if he inspected it from a convertible. The River Oaks area aside, the city planner types should call a meeting. They should all fire each other for crimes against logic, vision, and project management...
"Ample Samples" by jpg
...Fairfield, Texas. The Cooper conglomerate of food excellence should be supported coming and going. Ample samples, friendly folks, clean. Good...
The Shambles Of My Game
The shambles of my game are smoldering in a pit of glowing coals and lava. Steam lifts as the sweats of anger evaporate. My earlier explosion caused the blaze--that and an unforgiving opponent. My tennis education continues.
During the 11th game of the 15 game mahut, after being up 40-love in the previous service game and losing to make it 5-5, I'd decided to quit tennis. My opponent went on to hold serve and win the 11th game, and then the abuse began. A crash into the fench, a smash to the hardcourt, even a hard chunk across the net, konking the bench, and careening to my opponent's feet. A classy moment. A fit. Like it was the racquet's fault, and further, the racquet must be punished. In an abusive and cold manner. Lunacy. The eventual loss of 7-8 was tainted with shame. Asked for forgiveness at the closing net shake. For stealing my opponent's tennis joy. And worse, attempting to steal his tennis glory.
Good mahut for me really, a better result than the previous week, where my pathetic mental game helped produce a 2-8 loss. Summed up in this note describing the mahut...
The humbling began early, my opponent taking advantage of my chronic mental weakness. His wounded shoulder in my mind. Sympathy is such a pathetic and useless emotion in sports. It can motivate those receiving it unwantingly. And so it did, 8-2. Sure, serves came to me with no pop, but the spins were wild, my feet were bumbling, my strokes were incomplete, my tennis anger turned into despair, then defeat. My opponent taught me a lesson today. I will take note, I will learn from it. Seeing him and his red brake covers, hearing the roar of his exhaust, squinting at the shine of his convertible camero, I could only marvel. I could only wonder. Has anyone actually seen this MRI indicating a torn rotater cuff?. Doctor priviledge, I guess, but think of it. Brilliant. Surely not, that would be too brilliant. To fake an injury to ruin the mental game of your opponents. I will learn from this, yes, I will learn from this mahut. Mahut!
Physically, everything is good, despite the extra few lbs being lugged around. Joints, muscles, tendons, ligaments, and back. The eyes are weakening and the glasses fog, but still strong on the court, the tennis elbow of two years ago defeated. Plantar fascia troubles no longer. The mental weakness, however, can lead to a motivational crisis. And this is where I stood in the 12th and 13th games of my morning's crumbling mahut. Quit tennis until the Thursday morning Houston mahut, traditionally played before attending the day session of the U.S. Clay Court Championships. A three week layoff would do me well I thought, all the while aimlessly firing forehands and backhands out, in the net, to the fences. At least I wasn't screaming profanities and abusing my racquet.....any longer.
Came back and won a couple, but only after ruining the tennis peace of the entire complex. The Indians were polite, as always. Maybe it was Green Day, the morning's musical selection. Perhaps punk rock should be for other venues. But the morning was jamming, til the emotions in my mind let me down. The quitting idea has already been abandoned, it is rarely the best option. Perhaps prayer, yes, prayer. Prayer is always the answer. God's Will. Amen. Mahut!
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